The Diary
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: In which Tom Riddle meets a stranger whos destiny is entangled with his own. Weird vingette.


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Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to J K Rowling and various publishing houses. I'm not making a penny out of this (because if I were, I'd just write fan fiction all day).

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Dedication: To Lisamort: may you rule the world some day with your singing and dancing clones! ;)

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The Diary

~by~

Christine Bubbles

"I can open your eyes," His voice was soft, seductive, coiling through the air like the perfumed smoke from the pipe under his hood. He smiled; or at least Tom thought he smiled. There was a lilt, a jangle in that voice, rising and speaking more than words.

Power. Glory. Fame.

Tom traced the rim of his sweating glass, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid inside, expression a careful mixture of nonchalance and a subtle interest. "My eyes are already open," he replied coolly. "I know things about Hogwarts that-"

"You don't know where it is though."

"Where what is?" Tom's finger paused, hovered over the glass. His voice was calm but his heart thumped. The stranger didn't know. No one knew.

The stranger laughed, and the conversation in the pub around them hushed, then rose again when he stopped. He took his pipe out of his mouth. Long, white hands took a pinch of tobacco from a pouch on the table and pressed the snuff into the pipe. Tom watched quietly, on guard. Men don't buy you drinks for nothing. 

"You know what I'm talking about Tom. I've searched for the Chamber-"

"Not so loud!" hissed Tom, gripping his glass. The stranger continued easily, swatting away Tom's concern like an errant fly.

"I've searched for the Chamber all my life. And now, when I find it, it's in the one place I can't go." The pipe disappeared back into the dark cavern of the stranger's hood. Tom remained silent. The perfumed smoke coiled into the air, somehow different to the pub's usual smoky air. It hung listless, shapeless, almost deliberately so... No child could discern any shape within it.

"Here." The long white hands threw a book on the table. It was black and when Tom picked it up, turned it over, he saw that it had been bought in Vauxhall Road, London.

"What's this?"

The stranger smiled again, a silver glint of teeth shining beneath the hood. "It is your destiny, Tom."

*

Tom found that he could not leave the book alone. After the stranger had left the pub he had sat for ten minutes more, flicking slowly through its blank musty pages. A blank diary - this was his destiny? It was ridiculous, preposterous: someone was trying to make a fool out of him.

Nevertheless, as he wandered through Hogsmeade he found his hands constantly straying inside his bag, caressing the diary's black cover. Despite, or maybe even because of its empty pages it intrigued him. He could feel its power, feel it as strongly as he had smelt the smoke back in the Three Broomsticks. It reeked of the same secret, intoxicating air as the stranger had. As ridiculous as it was, Tom knew that everything, his studies, his struggles, his dreams and waking thoughts had all led him inevitably to this book.

He sat on his bed cross-legged, the hangings pulled tight. The air as hot and heavy, but that didn't matter. The diary lay in his lap, his wand in his right hand, whispering cajoling words to the pages. Still, nothing revealed itself to him. Not until the ink fell from the nib of his quill onto the page. It disappeared into the paper. Smiling, Tom loaded up his quill again and wrote. 

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My name is Tom Riddle.

The words shone momentarily on the page before disappearing and oozing back something Tom had not written.

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Hello, Tom Riddle. I've been expecting you for quite some time now.

The words had hardly begun to fade away before Tom was writing.

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Why? Who are you? What do you want from me?

We are one another's destiny, Tom Riddle. Alone we are talented. Together we can be much, much more.

Who are you? wrote Tom again, smudging the ink in his angry haste.

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I am your future, Tom Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort.

Before Tom could write anything further, those words had faded away, revealing what he had wanted to ask.

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I can show you the Chamber of Secrets. I can show you how to open it. Would you like me to show you?

Ignoring the coy patronising tone, Tom wrote one word that barely seemed adequate to describe the blood lust that filled him.

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Yes.

At once there was a whirling, a rushing of blood. He was drowning in a sea of ink and blood, surrounded by snakes that hissed and two great, yellow eyes that paralysed and devoured him. There was the pounding of waves on the shore and an alien knowledge that he was moving, hands clasping doorframes and handles. He was whispering, his words seductive and the smell of perfumed smoke was all around him.

He was falling falling falling, hands brushing stone and earth, bleeding and clawing and oh, so alive! Alive as another being held up his head, moved him down through the low cavern, past dead rats and bones.

He felt time slip past him in great torrents, rushing through him in great rivers of whispering and slithering and cries of alarm. Immobile his face was, blank as the headmaster informed the school of an attack, silent as the school whispered. He knew. And he wrote. And he wrote and wrote until his fingers were blistered and bleeding and he was exhausted from the effort of telling his life. 

And then he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his head spinning as the stranger from the pub took his wand from his hand and twirled it in his fingers.

"Thank you Tom. I could never have done it without you." Tom remained silent, staring down at his hands, his own long fingers cracked and broken from his efforts.

"I could never have done it without you," repeated the stranger. "Only the true Heir of Slytherin can open the Chamber... And you did not have the power to open it yourself. Isn't it lucky that we found each other?"

Tom stared at the stranger's hands. "You took control. I didn't want you to do that."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tom," said the stranger briskly. "It was necessary. You know it was."

"Why?" His voice was cracked and he ached. He'd run marathons, pushed against stone, all without realising. He felt as though a fever had broken over him after weeks of insipid nothingness. The stone floor was hard beneath him and the air cool and thick.

"Look at yourself. Look how weak you are. You couldn't have done it on your own, you wouldn't have known what to do with this..." His fingers flexed towards the great statue. "This power," he whispered. 

Tom sneered. "I could have done it. It is you who tire me. You're-" He broke off, not knowing how to describe what he knew was inevitably happening.

Lord Voldemort pulled his hood down and Tom took in the red eyes and flat nose with no surprise. It was familiar, a face that had haunted his dreams and thoughts for what seemed an entire lifetime.

"You thought that this was your destiny Tom," whispered Voldemort, "when in fact, your destiny was to meet me. I could not gain access to the Chamber; only Slytherin's true Heir could. And now-"

"Now you kill me." Tom shut his eyes and heard footsteps come towards him, felt a presence hanging over him.

"You will not die, Tom." A hand brushed his hair. "Soon, everyone will know your name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. You see, Tom? We are the same. Destiny coils us together - for weeks we have been one and the same being." Tom opened his eyes and looked up. The thin mouth smiled remorselessly at him. 

"You kill me," whispered Tom.

"Yes. But your image will not die. I will become you." Smirk. "You will be given... full credit for your services. I will make sure of that."

"Another award," murmured Tom, his eyes falling shut again.

"Another award," agreed Voldemort. Cold white hands brushed Tom's throat. "But Tom... think how you have lived!"

He felt that he was swimming again, red ink all around him, losing himself to something bigger, a greater purpose. He had lived, lived as no other had. Lived through another's work, that had been his own, is very own precious work. His own passion shared by another. Perhaps they were soul mates, bleeding into each other, slamming into destiny with enough force to kill.

"You see, Tom? Dying is not so bad... It is living that is hard."

Tom agreed and slipped away, the high cold laughter trailing him and he knew that before he had died, that he had accomplished something great.


End file.
